A Mortal Among the Ethiopians

Running with the Ethiopian mystique

Ethiopian runners have a certain mystique about them. After all, they currently dominate our sport, with the likes of Kenenisa Bekele running a 53-second final lap to win the gold medal in the 2004 Olympic 10,000m final and Haile Gebrselassie averaging 4:44 miles to break the marathon world record.

Two summers ago, as a member of the Westchester New York Track Club, I was fortunate enough to train with two of them: Kassahun Kabiso and Retta Feyissa, both of whom are 2:16 marathoners. I had ample opportunity to observe their training and attitude as they ran endless, unshaded mile repeats around tracks during the sweltering heat of a late New York summer.

Training with them for just three months, I dropped my marathon PR by 5 minutes to 2:32. I owe some of these hard-won minutes to the lessons that they imparted as I propped myself up on my knees at the end of workouts. These lessons were not so much technical as they were mental: Do as I do, get in behind me, and watch.

During our first workout together, we ran mile repeats. It was just the three of us. As soon as my watch started, I expected to fight just to hold on – running at that impossible, Bekele-finishing-kick pace. It didn't happen.

Instead, we came through our first quarter in a maintainable 76 seconds and, though I huffed and heaved, I half expected to finish that first mile with them in a perfect, tight train. I was ecstatic: I was keeping up with Ethiopians! But as I struggled to breathe, Retta and Kassahun quietly chatted comfortably in their native Amharic language.

We began our next lap; they rocketed ahead and began to gap me. Lap three was faster. By the fourth lap, they were racing. And me? I was throwing my arms all over the place about 150 meters behind them; form utterly broken; all hopes of keeping up dashed.

Ethiopians progress their intervals. The pace starts off pedestrian. But it increases and ends with final laps of desperate agony. This teaches you to conserve and to slowly allocate effort in measured doses. If you start greedy, you end up losing. This truism can be said for all aspects of their workouts. Even our 3-mile warm-ups began lazily and ended at a breakneck pace.

I once observed Kassahun coming back to the track from a tempo run. His head bobbed in metronomic cadence with his hands as his legs turned over faster and faster. He ran one final lap on the track and as he rounded the last turn, he gunned it into the finish. I clocked him at 63 seconds.

Equally important to Ethiopian runners are their short recovery periods. While the rest of us were doubled over, gasping for air after a repeat, Retta and Kassahun would begin an immediate jog. They talked with one another, meticulously checking their watches, ensuring that they didn't wait more than 90 seconds before starting again.

Perhaps the most important lesson the Ethiopians taught me was the most intangible. Once we ran a hill workout that entailed eight repeats up a 90-second hill.

After the fourth repeat, I decided that my fifth was going to be all or nothing. I was going to challenge Retta, cashing in all my reserves with one desperate attempt to beat him. It was my turn to lead the train. I was the proverbial frog trying to be as big as the elephant.

As we got halfway up the hill, we were neck and neck. I made a desperate surge and passed him. For a fleeting moment, I was leading an Ethiopian. It was only going to last for one repeat, but I had managed to do it. At the top, Retta shook my hand and immediately ran down the hill, leaving me doubled over.

I burst.

After that, Retta switched into a new gear. The quiet but fierce competitive nature of Ethiopians manifested itself; he put his head down and worked himself into an all-out frenzy. He gapped the rest of us for the remaining workout – determined, unfazed and unbeatable. Ethiopians may be deceiving with their humble, calm, quiet nature: They train and compete like lions.

My workout that night unlocked some door with Retta. His attitude toward me changed. I had challenged him and pushed him. Before my last workout with the club, I caught sight of Retta. He came over to me and said, "Duncan, tonight you work out with me."

We did that workout in silence. I stayed on his heels and he led me along, encouraging me with his open hand. We weren't competing that time.

That day, he taught me a final lesson: Good runners aren't individuals; they are partners.